Amy sat down just before the bell rang. She tucked her books underneath her, and pulled up a notebook and a pen, and was ready for class.
Mr. Flowers, or Hank as he insisted everyone he taught call him, because Mr. Flowers made him sound ridiculous, lounged at the front of the room. He was leaning against the whiteboard, his legs crossed over one another and his arms crossed in front of him. He watched with a bemused,
I see this every day
sort of look as the last few people ducked in from the hallway.
"He's wearing the pants today," Amy's friend Lizzie whispered. Amy had noticed. Of course she had noticed.
Mr. Flowers taught a senior English elective called The Contemporary Word, which was an amazing class dissecting how language and the use of language had changed, and comparing older texts to new ones in order to give an understanding of how they've changed, yet showing the merit of both. It was far and away the most interesting class she had taken in her four years in high school, and that wasn't even just because to her Mr. Flowers was so goddamn, mind-numbingly sexy.
He was a tall man, a little less than a foot taller than she, when she'd stand near him and look up at him. He was young for a teacher, maybe only in his mid to later 20s, he'd only started teaching at the school this year, but his hair was already a grey or almost white. Which just worked for him. He must have spent a fair amount of time outside because his skin tone was slightly darker, not orange tan, just darker, so he didn't come off as looking like an albino or something. He dressed well, generally sweaters or long sleeved shirts rolled up at the sleeves. Amy had dubbed the fashion, 'Working Poet Chic.' And he was smart, confident, and his voice made her want to curl up into a little ball and die. It just had this buttery richness to it; it effortlessly seemed to drip with knowledge and sexuality all at the same time, and she found herself having to fight the urge to adjust her dress every time he spoke.
"Good morning folks," Hank said as he scanned the classroom. Amy's heart buzzed when he made eye contact with her, holding it for a moment longer than she expected him to, and she broke it off, looking down at the desk, her cheeks burning red, "How is everyone today?"
There was a murmuring chorus of goods, and Mr. Flowers nodded.
"I'd be better if he fucked me," Lizzie whispered into Amy's ear. Amy slapped at Lizzie's shoulder, shocked.
"Lizzie!" she said back in a tight whisper. Lizzie just laughed. Amy wasn't sure why Lizzie was always saying things like that. She was super beautiful, one of the most effortlessly beautiful people Amy knew, yet Lizzie seemed to always crave more attention than she already received. If Amy had to deal with that many comments about her own ass, she figured she'd want to just cut it right the fuck off. But Lizzie couldn't get enough. Amy had a feeling it stemmed from Lizzie's parents working so much. She had to get her attention and love elsewhere. God, listen to her, she takes one psychology course and figures she's a shrink.
Lizzie grinned at Amy and gestured toward the front. She meant look at the pants.
God, the pants.
They were a pair of khakis he wore occasionally that were a little too tight, or, more correctly, just the right amount of tight. When he'd turn around they perfectly framed his butt, which Amy had never considered being in to, but when you saw this man's butt... she couldn't help herself. And sometimes, sometimes when he turned just right or when he sat just right and they rode up she could see the outline of him through those pants. It was right there, more than a bulge, a line snaking slightly down his leg, and the thought of it...
It hadn't happened yet today, but it gave Amy something to look forward to.
They were on
1984
right now, which Hank was making them compare to modern sources of 'news' like Reddit and Digg and Buzzfeed and comparing the idea of a dystopian dictatorship with the modern reality of what amounted to crowd-sourced news. Amy was amazed that this class was not constantly full because it was seriously the only interesting thing in the whole building.
Class went on, and she did a pretty good job of half listening, but she was also distracted. He went most of the class without the pants working their magic, she knew because she couldn't stop checking, and she was starting to get desperate for it. It was like a drug, and she needed her fix. Finally, toward the end they got to the free-write session he always had them do. He was an advocate of writers needing to read and readers needing to write, so he would have the class do both at the end. It didn't matter, he said, what they wrote, as long as it was something they cared about, and as long as they were putting words down on paper.
Hemmingway, he told them, used to write 500 words per day. Every day. No matter what. And even if they were shit, yes, he said shit in school because he was great and real, he would have them down. And there was always editing.
She craned her neck around a little, stretching and thinking about what she was going to write, and she glanced again up front. He was sitting on his desk, leafing through a copy of
1984
, and there it was. Her heart threatened to jump out of her chest, and her stomach seemed to be in her throat. The pants had ridden up some when he sat down, his butt pulling the fabric up, tightening it in the front, and she could so perfectly see the outline of his dick through his pants, snaking slightly down his left leg, perfect and wonderful.
She started writing almost unconsciously.
He stood at the front of the room, his hair perfectly in place, a slight smile on his face, but his eyes burning right into mine. Everyone else had gone, it was just the two of us, and he nodded slightly toward me. I walked slowly toward him, and he didn't move, that bulge in his pants seemed to grow though as I approached. I stared at it perfectly framed in his pants, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. 'Take off your clothes' he commanded in his perfect voice, and then I was naked in front of him, my hands across my chest and my va- all of me. 'You're beautiful,' he said, 'Show me.' And I moved my arms down to my sides and his piercing eyes looked me up and down, hungrily. I wanted to feel him touch me, and I wanted to take him right there. I wanted to take that bulge and let it free, take that beautiful, perfect dick in my hand and-
Suddenly, it seemed, he was actually right in front of her, and starting to look down at her paper. No! She scrambled to cover it up crumpling it up into a ball, and as she did she realized that class was over and most everyone had left. How had she gotten so distracted she'd missed that? Lizzie was sitting back in her chair, totally content to be waiting there.
"Amy, you really got in to that one. May I take a look?"
"No. Uh, no. You can't read it. It's personal."
"You can read mine Hank," Lizzie said in her best sultry voice. Amy flashed her a violent look, and she just grinned back.
"That's ok Lizzie, I'm sure it's great. Alright, well Amy did you hear the assignment for the weekend?"
"Um, no," Amy said, biting her lip. She felt like she was disappointing him and she didn't like it. She did like that he was standing over her right now though.
He started talking but she didn't hear because he twisted just right and here was that bulge again, but this time right in front of her face almost. She could even sort of see the outline of the head, and she thought she might pass out.
She looked up at him, and his gaze told her she'd been caught. Her cheeks burned red, and he just stared at her.
"Did you get that?"
"Finish 1984, ya," said Lizzie, "Come on Amy, we're gonna be late to gym."
